


i'm coming (home) to you

by colferstilinski



Series: it's a (new) morning [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference (but there's no mention in the difference on the gap), Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Alwaysagirl!Stiles, Don't ask me for a sequel because I suck at sequels, F/M, Genderswap, Light Dirty Talk, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Underage - Freeform, teacher!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:11:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colferstilinski/pseuds/colferstilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First step: Getting an outsider's opinion.</p><p>Second step: Smoulder, seduce and success.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm coming (home) to you

**Author's Note:**

> P/s: Unbeta'd and probably has a shit ton of writing/spelling/grammar errors.

Stiles has always been a good student, well; she likes to think that she was before the whole… _situation._

She’s never once been late for classes even when it was freshman year. Not even when she’s hauling herself out the ladies room five minutes before first period, a tampon shoved hastily in her vagina and toilet paper trailing under her Mary-Jane platforms.

She also prides herself that she’s on the honour roll too.

Of course all of that changes with Mr. Hale.

Yeah, cue the collective dreamy sighs of about five hundred hormonal teenage girls stuck in a semi-rundown high school in a town that shitted out from nowhere of California and have boys categorized into three different types.

The first are the Whittemore types, the kind of boys that you can’t even say their first name because it humanizes them, therefore not making them sound like the spawn of devil they truly are. They go hand-in-hand with the Martin type girls, but they’re mostly queens, fabulous and are in the cheerleading squad.

So, _there_.

Second type is the kind of guys that Stiles always finds herself adoring after. The Scott McCalls. The boys in this bunch are the best, although they aren’t many in the lot. They’re well-mannered and actually treat girls the way they should be treated, like they are a majestic creature that roams the shittier parts of Earth and has to bow down to all her great ways.

Stiles exaggerates, duh, but the Scott Mccalls are the best bunch of boys you can find in Beacon Hills for a boyfriend status, but sadly, all of them are taken by girls who meets the Allison Argent criteria.

The last kind… well, it’s not really a type since there’s only Danny and Matt in there while all the other boys that’s left just doesn’t count because, well, they’re not redeemable enough to be mentioned. They’re both gay— _for each other_.

Yep. Homosexual. Loves it up the ass and have no fanciful taste for the glorious vagina.

So, yeah, everything isn’t too swell for girls like Stiles, until… _drum roll_ , Mr. Hale.

Mr. Hale that looks effortless with his permanent dirty scruff that shadows to his adam’s apple and have about fifty types of sharp looking blazers he shrugs on with a white pressed oxford that goes nicely with a slim tie every morning. He’s literally every girls’ walking wet dream from the Playgirl magazine (no, don’t even judge her) and the best thing?

He’s just in arm’s length reach in distance.

Stiles sometimes wonder why her dad doesn’t just abuse his sheriff title and arrest Mr. Hale from looking outrageously good in such a small town but that’s just weird so she doesn’t let her mind ponder on that far.

However, if her mind supplies dirty thoughts of Mr. Hale pressing her against the hood of the cruiser, hooking an arm under her leg as he fucks into her core until she feels too dry and raw, well—that’s her own damn business.

-

Stiles likes thinking out of the box and making plans for urgent (read: her sexual life) situations, so obviously she draws out a whole fool proof plan on ways and means to seduce the one and only Mr. Hale, which she has already deducted about an 83.2 percent of success.

 _First step:_ Getting an outsider’s opinion.

Stiles doesn’t have much friends because she doesn’t associate most of the girls who fawns over the Whittemore type dudes at any given moment in school and shies away from ones who are just a tad too rambunctious with their bitchy gossips.

So, she engages the only help she can get in Allison, who has been Scott’s girlfriend for about a year running or so. It’s one of the perks of having Scott as a next door neighbour because she gets to drop by his place without the whole high school society ladder burdening her—not that she gives much of a shit about said imaginary ladder.

Allison squeals out a shrill sounding, “Oh! Lydia’s gonna love this! A make-over! Oh, Stiles, you could have just gone to me straight!” and then she’s punching in numbers on her phone, making an appointment to some saloon as she rattles on words like full-body, bikini and a nice mud massage.

Stiles only start to freak out when she puts two and two together the next day when both girls are trying to drag her body into the only waxing saloon in Beacon Hills, assuring her that it’s gonna be fine. That it’s quick and pinches you like an ant bite.

 _Yeah_ …

It’s _not_ a fucking ant bite.

Her pubes felt like it got ripped out by Lucifer himself and then decimated into a pool of lava.

Stiles doesn’t have much dignity left when she waddles her way to the nearest mall.

-

Okay.

Stiles probably didn’t think through that much on the whole plan (pfft, fool proof) as she could have done, probably clouded by the overwhelming need to choke on Mr. Hale’s dick, because she’s suddenly embarking into a life of make-up—half of it that she doesn’t even know exists, like eyelash curlers.

They are mankind’s destruction to women.

Or, you know, itty bitty tank tops that don’t even cover half of her tits, not that she has big ones to flaunt in the first place. They’re just there, on her chest, a small B-cup that justifies well enough on her small frame, but c’mon, they’re just _boobs_.

“They’re not _just_ boobs,” Lydia tells her as she rolls her eyes, like it’s almost outrageous that Stiles could even say think, lest think it. “They’re your weaponry, the tools to lure and prey on those meatheads. Use them wisely and you can get anything you want.”

Stiles grumbles as she pulls at the front of tank, trying to cover up some of the fleshy bits that’s just pouring out for the public eye to see.

“Fine,” Stiles grouses. “Not just boobs, then, but can you at least get me something I can wear where I can actually, like, oh I don’t know, _breathe_?”

“Oh, honey,” Allison says and she pats her on the shoulder with a sympathetic smile. “We don’t actually breathe. Just little sips of breath to last for the hour.”

Stiles only knows she’s kidding when Allison loses it the next second, but for that one measly second, she was almost tempted to call everything off. Yeah, Mr. Hale’s dick is so not worth all of this pain.

Kind of.

Okay, _not really_. Stiles would rather die from suffocation because of all the sexing up she’ll be doing but definitely not because of clothes.

That’s just whack talk.

-

Stiles ends up buying that tank top, _unknowingly_ , because Lydia hid it in between a heap of other clothes and several pairs of lingerie that has more holes than the ratty, worn in one that her mom bought for her as her first pair of grown up panties.

That was three years ago before she passed away.

She still keeps it because it’s kind of her first step into womanhood and she likes remembering that her mom was there to introduce it to her before the sickness took over her body. Stiles doesn’t like remembering the sad parts, so…moving on.

Right.

So, Stiles thinks she’s the epitome of unsexy. Well, not really. She knows she’s smokin’ hot but according to a very messed up society, she’s more of the girl next door type, the I’ll forget about you in the next minute even though I’m still talking to you type, which makes her scoff.

Because, Stiles? Is _awesome._

C’mon, she came up with her own nickname and everyone calls her that, even the teachers, especially one Mr. Hale. If that isn’t margining on standards of Chuck Norris, she doesn’t want to live in this world anymore.

But being on the prowl sexy? Yeah, Stiles no comprende.

She doesn’t even understand the basic mechanics of sexy and her next step is crucial for it, because:

 _Second step:_ Smoulder, Seduce, and Success.

Well, lookie there, she’s fucked.

-

On a Sunday night, after a long three-way conversation with Allison and Lydia as she questions them about their daily morning routines, she sets the alarm at five in the morning and tells the girls she’s calling it a night.

Which is a total lie because she throws her phone onto her bedside table, ushers to grab her laptop, flips it open and starts googling: ‘How to be sexy and seduce a man’, backspacing ‘so he can fuck me and the night away while forgetting that I’m actually underage but who the fuck cares? I want his dick’.

She clicks on about twenty websites that teaches her the intricacies to be a mastermind of a sex goddess, rubs one out because she can only go that long thinking about possible scenarios where Mr. Hale will succumb to the temptress, that is she, before it makes her horny and then— _then_ , she calls it a night.

When the alarm clock blares the next morning, she throws it across the room.

 -

Stiles know she’s running late when she stretches her body out, moaning when the knots in her body cracks as she lazily checks her phone in a sleep-haze. Her eyes only widens with clarity when she realizes she only has about ETA forty minutes to prepare her kill-you-with-my-vagina look and she knows that it isn’t enough from what the girls rattled on last night.

Fucking orgasms. It’s a love/hate thing, she swears.

She scrabbles out of bed, rushes into the bathroom and probably achieving some form of multi-tasking world record as she dons on the sex bomb with a pencil skirt, that miniscule tank top which she throws on with some cream mid-waist jacket and then flies out of her house.

Fuck _yeah._

Megan Fox can take a tip or two from her.

Stiles makes it to class about five minutes late, panting (if you have never ran in killer heels, you wouldn’t understand) and there’s sweat pooling under her bra wire. She can feel her class of thirty-five staring down at her as she does her walk of shame to her seat.

She thinks she even hears a wolf whistle from the back of the class but the blood buzzing in her ears makes it difficult to hear anything really.

It’s only when she’s settled down in her seat that she feels the vibration of her phone in her jacket pocket. She whips it out, unlocks it and reads:

 _Queen of the peasants (08:13)_ **  
**Got a candid of you in your killer outfit circulating on twitter. You’ve done me proud.

Of course because this is Stiles’ life, she gets handed her first pink slip because she’s late but whatever. Monday blues can suck it because Stiles totally have it beaten down to a pulp.

-

Mr. Hale’s classes are always in fourth or fifth period, just right before lunch break and he teaches Art and Literature. The two subjects that Stiles never really paid much attention in because she’s always been a very logical instead of an artistic person, but let it be known that a man (a very _gorgeous_ man that so happens to be your teacher) can sway one’s thinking.

Because now all she can thinks is making art with words and having his mouth on her. Or the other way round. She’s fine with either both as long there’s orgasms as the final product.

 _Lots_ of orgasms.

So when she walks into fourth period—she’s always the first one because there’s the whole perfect attendance and never being late thing which obviously has been revoked now—her heels clicking in protest against the floorings of the classroom as she takes a first row desk.

Stiles can feel Mr. Hale’s eyes burning into her back and she shivers with dark delight because hell _yeah._

“Um,” Mr. Hale clears his throat, pulling against the corner of his shirt after she smooth out the edges of the skirt and then taking a seat. “Morning Stiles.”

Stiles almost beams at him but then she remembers—cool, _collected_ —and then precisely tugs the corners of her lips into some sort of smirking smile. It feels ridiculous. “Oh hey, Mr. Hale!”

“Heard from Frank—I mean, _Mr. Durnst_ , that you were late today.” Mr. Hale says and he awkwardly shifts a little in his seat. Stiles almost full on pouts because the teacher’s desk front is covered so she can’t see through anytime below the waist.

Like, he could be sporting a hard-on as of right now and Stiles would never know.

A wasted metaphoric boner, she thinks, as she mourns for it internally.

“Yeah,” Stiles dazedly replies. “He gave me a pink slip even though he _knows_ it’s my first time.”

Mr. Hale gives her a small empathetic smile, “Well, Carl— _Mr. Wallace_ —damn it. He’s doing the detention shifts today and since you’re my favourite student in class, I’ll request for it to be shortened to only thirty minutes. How’s that sound?”

Stiles almost chokes on an inhale and has to grip the desk with her stupid acrylic nails scritching against the plastic just to prevent herself from running over there and impaling herself onto his dick in gratitude.

Yeah, she knows detention wouldn’t even be in the cards then.

“You would, really?”

“Yeah,” Mr. Hale chirps—he fucking chirps. How is he smouldering in one second and then he transcends all of it and becomes an adorable little pup the next? Stiles is suffering major whiplash, okay? Or maybe it’s because she’s gushing in her racy purple panties.

Ugh. She can almost smell her pussy juice from up here.

“It’ll be no problem.”

“You’re the best, Mr. Hale!” Stiles grins at him, wide and blinding, and she doesn’t give a shit if she’s breaking all the do-not rules that top sex gurus has implemented. Fuck that.

Her soon-to-be sex machine just totally semi-bailed her out of detention. It’s an A+ all in all, suck on that.

-

Stiles gets home and immediately struggles out of her too tight clothes and rids herself of the caking make-up on her face before she flops on the bed, groaning about the amazing sheet count. Good things never last long because the next thing she knows, her phone is vibrating a mile a minute and she almost mistaken it for her little… _toy_.

She’ll just leave it at that for now.

Apparently the girls have decided that since she’s their new experiment, they need to keep tabs on her through a text conference on Whatsapp. Stiles is fine with it, she really is, but she would just like to take just a minute to reflect about how Mr. Hale totally (okay, probably, maybe, the odds aren’t that much anyway) has a big hard-on for her.

 _Amazon princess (18:13)_  
You look so adorable today, Stiles! But you should try letting down your hair. It really shows off the makeup even better.

 _Stiles the Magnificent (18:19)_  
It got the job done, though? ;)

 _Queen of the peasants (18:21)  
_ Dish!

 _Queen of the peasants (18:22)  
_ Also, who’s the mystery boy behind all of these changes? Do we know him? Because I swear to god, Stiles, if you say some loser’s name… I’m going to do your next waxing session myself.

 _Stiles the Magnificent (18:24)  
_ Firstly, ouch. Hands off

the goods. Secondly, well, if I say his name, you’d think _I’m_ the loser.

 _Amazon princess (18:29)  
_ We don’t think you’re a loser, Stiles. We never did.

 _Queen of the peasants (18:31)  
_ Well, I did.

 _Amazon princess (18:31)  
_ Lydia!

 _Queen of the peasants (18:35)  
_ Fine. I did, but you’re not anymore, okay? Girls who have flawless complexion can’t be hated, only envied.

 _Stiles the Magnificent (18:39)  
_ Ugh. Fine. It’s a teacher, and I’m only saying that.

 _Queen of the peasants (18:42)  
_ Gross, Stiles. Mr. Hale is probably like two times your age.

 _Stiles the Magnificent (18:45)  
_ Excuse you, how would you know I’m actually talking about Mr. Hale? You don’t. So, hah.

 _Amazon princess (18:47)  
_ C’mon, Stiles. He’s the only teacher that isn’t…you know, weird and disgusting.

 _Stiles the Magnificent (18:49)  
_ Yeah, but there’s Ms. Joleen! She’s a babe.

 _Queen of the peasants (18:50)  
_ If this is you coming out, I’m going to punch you in the vagina, Stiles.

 _Stiles the Magnificent (18:52)  
_ Someone’s on her period…

 _Amazon princess (18:53)  
_ Scott’s laughing at this conversation. I’m sorry! He peeked!

 _Stiles the Magnificent (18:55)  
_ My life. _Of course._ Ugh. I’ll talk to you two later. I’ve homework to do.

Stiles switches off her phone and pointedly ignores trying to switch it back on even long after she’s done with all her work, even doing some extra credit for Mr. Hale’s class because—well, if it gets her to pace up to where she can hide underneath the teacher’s desk and swallow his dick whole, why not?

Obviously a girl can dream.

-

Stiles spends the following week doing a bunch of things off a checklist she made from the advices she gotten off the variety of websites she researched on.

So, on Tuesday, she tugs on (understatement of the year because there was power and stuffing of things she never knew she had) the most uncomfortable, tightest jeans she owns and a V-neck shirt that cuts like sin at the cleavage region.

She thinks that even she might get turned on from her own boobs.

Stiles says her greetings to Mr. Hale as soon she walks in, sits herself at her usual seat, which is upfront because c’mon, it’s the best view and waits idly for the rest of the class to fill up the empty desks before she begins into the nitty gritty.

She pulls out a pen from her bag. It’s just a normal ballpoint, nothing inky, because she’s smarter than that and places it on her lips when Mr. Hale finally walks to the front of the class, greeting everyone politely.

It starts as just a tease, nothing much, the end tip of the pen just sliding against the smooth mixture of spit and gloss after she wets them with a soft smack of tongue. Stiles knows she’s got Mr. Hale’s attention when he drones out for a few second only to regain sense and continue talking again.

That’s a huge _whoop_ that Stiles is keeping inside of her.

Then, it gets to the better part—the one where she needs to be a little more careful because on her left and right, there are also perky little girls, which she scoffs at them internally to quit dreaming, just wanting to get it on with Mr. Hale.

Stiles slips the pen into her mouth, lets the plastic glide across the bottom row of her teeth for a few seconds before she closes her lips around it, humming softly, and then pulls it back out. She watches Mr. Hale’s steps falter as she looks up at him, blinking her eyes innocently.

She does it again, taking the pen a little deeper until she feels the end of it tickling against her upper palate and the way her stomach clenches with heat and want when her mind flits off with blowing Mr. Hale in front of the whole class.

What a great lesson in Literature that would be. Shakespeare writes sonnets while Stiles gives their hot teacher a blowjob as a tribute to him.

She only catches herself a little too late when she realizes she’s lightly bobbing her mouthing onto the pen—fucking rookie mistake already—and has one of her hands gripping on her jean-clad upper thigh. She congratulates herself on not wearing a skirt today or she’d be fucking herself on her fingers already.

Mr. Hale continues the lesson behind his desk for the entire forty-five minutes left.

-

_Derek._

That’s Mr Hale’s name and Stiles is about _yay_ close to combusting because her mind is going miles a minute with a rapid pornographic slideshow of how she’s moaning out his name in ecstasy, head thrown back and the walls of her vagina clenching with her orgasm on his shaft.

Yeah, she’s already flustered up and the school day isn’t even half over yet.

Also, let it be known that Stiles is not a stalker, unlike majority of the girls who are pawing themselves senseless at Derek, she finds out his name in a casual and discreet manner. Okay, she eavesdropped a little but still.

She didn’t _google_ him.

Mr. Hale— _Derek_ takes a work call in class, apologizing to Stiles even though it was just the two of them in the classroom, right before the students start filtering in and he spoke in a gruff tone, “Derek Hale speaking,” and cue wetness.

Stiles rushes back home after school and fucks herself on her handy dandy hairbrush handle until she’s a sweating, groaning mess of uncoordinated limbs.

-

It’s two weeks later and Stiles is still getting absolutely _nowhere_ with the success part of step two because her bed is definitely missing a broody man with muscles on his muscles, fucking her brains out until they start oozing out of her ears.

She’s also getting a little tired of biting her lips and having permanent lipstick stains on her teeth or wearing skimpy clothes that leaves her cold whenever a breeze of cold air picks up through the windows in class.

So, Stiles is pulling out the big guns. She even texts the girls her plans which Allison chides her for being so out there and Lydia tells her that if she pulls through and manages to do it without chickening out, she’ll wear sweatpants for an entire week.

It’s a total Regina George moment and Stiles can’t back down from that.

Stiles waits, dormant with anticipation with her plans, until she sees the long awaited cloudy day report _pinging_ on her phone screen on a Thursday morning. She jumps out of bed, throws the curtains apart clumsily and squeals in delight when the clouds are looking dark and swelling with rain.

She prepares for the day with a sweet mustard pleated skirt that stops five inches too high above her knee ( _holler_ detention for dress code), a white tank top that she goes au naturel underneath, her nipples already starting to peek under the thin material and a pair of wedges that she frumps around clumsily as she gets used to walking with it.

Today’s already looking positively hopeful.

-

It pours down, _heavily_ , a real cats and dogs situation. The pitter patter or rain splashes against the window panes of her Jeep as she sits there for another five minutes, twenty before the first bell rings, brewing with trepidation.

Stiles has everything timed to a tee because she’s been observing Derek’s timetable from the side lines. From as soon as he gets out his gorgeous car (a goddamn Camaro, yes she’s done her research, and she knows he’s not compensating for anything because she’s seen _the_ bulge) to when he ushers himself into his first class.

On Thursday, Derek doesn’t have any morning classes but he always comes to school a little earlier to share a quiet breakfast with Mr. Wallace and Madam Tally, the school head’s librarian who totally rocks out the bohemian look that Stiles never could.

They’re all involved in the performing arts sector of the school and are always planning for something to engage students to join in, even though they’re already half of the school year in.

Stiles think it’s so cute that Derek scrunches his nose in delight whenever he gets excited over something.

No, still not stalking—it’s called _observing_.

When Stiles sees a flash of black turning into the school’s car park in her peripheral, she peeks at her reflection at the rear view mirror, content that her face isn’t looking blotchy even without makeup, before she’s slinging her purse onto her shoulder, nudging the door open.

She takes a sharp inhale when the irk of wet and cold hits her skin immediately when she steps out of the warmth comfort of her Jeep, her body flushing with heat to make up the change drop of temperature before she’s carefully walking into the school compound, hands tucked in her armpits in case her fingers freezes and drops mid-walk.

“Stiles?” She hears him calling from behind and she’s tempted to just stop and wait for him to catch up, but no man is worth getting sick in this rain. “Jesus, Stiles! Wait up, I have an umbrella!”

Her teeth are chattering when he catches up with her and her hair’s matted on her forehead, dripping with rainwater to her eyelashes. Derek’s waft of cologne assaults her nostrils before she even feels the pull of heat from his body as he slides up beside her, a hand ghosting on her lower back as they walk towards the shelter.

Okay, fine, Stiles may have underestimated the distance from the car park to school—she blames it on the heels. If she were wearing a pair of vans or even flats, she’d probably reach in less than thirty seconds but, nope.

The price to pay to be fabulous _while_ pulling off the sex kitten look.

When they’re finally out of the rain and Stiles is sluicing away the drops of water that’s clinging onto her arms, she realizes that Derek’s actually gaping at her—okay, not really the overall _her_ , but his eyes are locked at the mid-section area where her tits are being exposed for everyone to see.

She glances down meekly and sees that her shirt is soaked through, the cotton of her top sticks to her body like a second layer of skin, melting into every curve and her nipples are at peak point.

“ _Christ_ —” Derek exasperatedly rubs on his face, tearing his gaze away which Stiles grieves and then he’s shrugging his blazer off. “Here, take this. You’ll catch a cold without a jacket.”

Derek swings the jacket over her shoulders and pulls the lapels of the blazer until they’re secure on her lithe frame, hiding her semi-exposed (is it even considered _semi_?) body. Her plans have gone all wired wrong because Stiles had a well thought out plan where Derek would just be overwhelmed by lust from seeing her body and taken her on some random table.

At least she gets to snuggle in his clothes.

Stiles looks up from her lashes and pulls the jacket closer to her, smiling softly. “Thanks Mr. Hale. I’m just a total dork for not checking the weather reports today. Silly old me.”

Derek gives her a pained smile, “It’s no problem. I’ll see you in class, Stiles.”

Stiles watches him walk away with a limp and starts giggling to herself when she realizes he’s doing the boner walk. All in all, it’s still a major success.

-

 _Amazon princess (09:26)  
_ Stiles? Stiles, I think you broke him.

 _Queen of the peasants (09:31)  
_ Me and Allie are having his literature class right now and he’s being a total dick.

 _Queen of the peasants (09:33)  
_ Blue balls aren’t fun. Trust me. I’ve given Jackson plenty of them.

 _Stiles the Magnificent (09:39)  
_ One word, Lydia, one word. Sweatpants.

 _Queen of the peasants (09:42)  
_ Yeah well, terms and conditions apply.

 _Stiles the Magnificent (09:45)  
_ Ignoring you.

-

“No,” Lydia says plainly, twirling her hair between her fingers. “I’m not wearing sweatpants to school. It was a euphemism, you know. I only rose to the challenge because I didn’t think you have it in you to do it.”

Stiles narrows her eyes, “Wow, your words are _too_ sweet, Lyds. No, sweet talk to me more.”

Allison hides a snort behind her textbooks and Stiles takes it like an achievement. “Well, Lydia, Stiles did do it and nobody—”

“Finish that sentence,” Lydia says cuttingly. “—and you’ll suffer my wrath.”

“Is this going to be my first catfight?” Stiles gasps, eyes widening with anticipation as she lazily plays with the last button on Derek’s jacket. Yeah, school’s over and they’re in some little café that serves low-fat, non-sweetened cappuccinos and she’s _still_ wearing his jacket because— _because_ she’s not going to return it until he asks for it.

And Stiles is _very_ positive that that situation would end with a fuck.

Well, almost positive. It’s a very high positive.

“What is wrong with you?” Lydia asks and her eyes totally betray her tone because they’re dancing with amusement. “No but I’m not wearing them unless…”

“Unless?” Allison echoes and they’re both sitting at the edge of the seats waiting for her to continue. They truly are merely mortals in comparison to the greatness of one Lydia Martin, like if Stiles wasn’t have a big gush-on for Derek, she’d be humping on Lydia’s hip.

“Unless,” Lydia continues. “Stiles masturbates in front of Mr. Hale, like full frontal rubbing and everything.”

“No,” Stiles disagrees. “No fucking shit, _no_.”

Because Stiles is not, will never be a Lydia Martin type girl even if she piles on ten different brands of make-up, she doesn’t get the final say but it’s not like she was resisting… _much_.

-

Stiles alters the challenge a little because she’s not that gutsy to stick her hand down her panties and finger herself until she comes in a room full of her classmates. Yeah, she’s still got about six months of senior year left and she doesn’t want to rein the title of school slut on her name.

Not that there’s anything wrong with being a slut.

She’s an advocate for all the sexing.

So Stiles tells her dad that she’s spending the weekend with the girls at some cast away lake house that she pulls an address and name for lesser suspicion and drives to the next over to get the necessary equipment.

She’s been there about once or twice, a sex store that has a conspicuous name, for her vibrators and a small glass dildo. They’re nothing too fancy or overpriced, all of them sooth in texture so that it doesn’t cause too much friction against her vagina lips and are all small enough to fit in her bedside table.

She goes there and purchases it— _a vibrating panty_.

The store owner grins at her when she makes the payment in cash and tells that it’s the hottest selling item in the market as of right now and she quotes him, “Girl, I don’t lie to ya but those things, yeh, those things make your eyes roll, babe.”

Stiles blushes so hard that she almost feels dizzy.

She’s holding it in front of her on Monday morning, her clothes neatly placed on her bed and she’s just staring down at the frisky piece of lingerie. Its black laced panty with pink satin ribbons at the side and a clit buzzer sewed in nicely at the middle, just before the frill starts. There’s also a separated wired bullet vibrator that she know is supposed to go inside her.

It hits her fully when she realizes she’s going to get buzzed inside _and_ outside.

_God._

She shakes the box a little and the remote falls out of it which she pops in two AAA batteries inside, clicking them once and feels the roar of the bullet vibrator flipping frantically on her hand.

Well, she’s fucked.

Literally.

-

 _Stiles the Magnificent (07:42)  
_ If you don’t swear on the sweatpants, Lydia, I will tell everyone your middle name.

 _Stiles the Magnificent (07:43)  
_ Isn’t that right… Nancy?

 _Queen of the peasants (07:49)  
_ I have no idea what you’re talking about. Keep your mouth shut, Stilinski.

-

The first few hours of school is awkward especially when Stiles walks around with the knowledge that she has something lodged up inside her that isn’t to prevent her period from becoming the next red sea but her body is definitely sending a whole different message.

Her clit feels slightly swollen from the constant rubbing against the nub of the buzzer, even without the hum of the vibrations that she knows will have her body thrumming with pleasure. Hey, it’s not her fault that Stiles got curious about how it could work—call it a scientific experiment.

Her thighs are also sticky with her lubrication, wet with promise and she feels thankful that she decided to with a nice black flared out biker skirt that would hide any wet stains she leaves on chairs.

That is until they dry up and becomes a dry patch of white vaginal come. Yeah… she’s not looking forward for that and she’s hoping the pair of panties she has on has ultra-soaking devices or some shit.

Stiles rushes into Mr. Hale’s class slightly earlier than she’s used to, skipping out chatting with the girls at the lockers for a few seconds so she could ninja out her plan without Derek walking in on her.

She places the remote control for the vibrators on the desk, slips a neatly handwritten note below it (Derek would surely know it’s her since he’s always praised her on her amazing penmanship skills) before she saunters her way to her seat—dead center of the first row and if she spreads her legs wide enough, he’d get to see _everything_.

She tries to stop her heart from beating out of her chest when Derek walks into the classroom, pristine as ever. He’s forgone the blazer today and has on just a nice gray striped shirt that does wonders to his shoulders and the material stretches so nicely over his taut biceps.

Stiles groans internally.

“Morning Stiles,” Derek says and it’s almost like he’s keeping in a sigh.

Stiles gives him a playful look and subconsciously cards her fingers through her hair, pulling her tight ponytail to one side. “Hey Mr. Hale, you’re looking cheery as always.”

He grumbles under his breath and he looks _exhausted,_ there’s a hint of dark circles teasing at the bottom of his eyes and his scruff looks untamed instead of the carefully shaven grains of stubble he always sports.

Stiles _almost_ feels guilty from playing all these game with him but—hey, she wants what she wants.

Unfortunately, his briefcase (the one he carries that Stiles positively swoons about because if love was made into a bag, it was that) and completely barring him from knowing that he now controls Stiles’ orgasm destiny but she stiles in relief when students start rolling into class and he gingerly places it on the ground.

She watches the way his eye snaps to it like a hawk to a prey, eyeing it with a careful suspicion, as he sweeps it into his hand and reading the note with an eyebrow raised. Stiles like to pretend that what she wrote was fucking suave or something really poetic, but it’s not.

It simply said: _‘I want you to make me come.’_

Derek jerks his eyes at her and Stiles does a fist bump in her mind because she was _totally_ right about the penmanship thing. She looks at him coyly; well she tries, and then hitches her skirt a little higher off her thigh, just a slow graze of fingertips pulling on the hem of it until she sees a little of lace being exposed from under the table.

His eyes zooms in to the movement, staring at probably the wet spot on her lingerie before he’s taking a sharp inhale, his shirt stretching over his pecs as he does.

Stiles would put Cheshire the cat to shame from how wide she’s grinning.

“Alright class,” Derek clears his throat, voice breaking and rough as he clutches onto the remote in his hands. He’s not leaving his post on the desk which Stiles is about ninety-five out of ten oompa loompas sure that he’s hard. “Settle down now. Today—today we’re going to be watching a movie that’s based off one of my favourite novels.”

There’s a resounding cheer from the jock seniors at the back of the class while the girls in the first few rows giggle animatedly at him fumbling over his words. If only they knew.

“Does anyone want to get the lights for me?”

A dark room and Derek’s full focus on her? Fuck. _Yes._

“I’ll do it,” Stiles purrs and she’s sweeping off the chair, sashaying in what she hopes is a walk that’s probably accentuating her assets and then flicks the lights off. Yeah, all of it. She’s going all out now because teachers have this ridiculous thing where they’d always like to keep the back row lights switched on even though the entire class groans and grumbles about it.

Derek doesn’t comment on it.

“Is this alright, Mr. Hale?” She asks as she gracefully slips back into her seat. Yep, Stiles is a motherfucking swan when she’s horny.

“Yes,” Derek chokes, he fucking chokes when one of his hands goes under the desk. He’s probably squeezing himself right now and Stiles would never know. “Thank you, Ms Stilinski.”

“My pleasure,” Stiles drawls and she licks her lips, wetting them.

Derek messes around with the computer on the teacher’s desk before the projector flickers, painting the whiteboard with a blue light and it’s only a few minute later that Pride and Prejudice starts playing on it.

Stiles hums in contentment—Derek makes a _ravishing_ Mr. Darcy.

It’s about ten minutes in on the movie, the students slowly quietening down from their chatter as they get entranced by the magic of a romance film before Stiles feels the light spur of vibrations hitting directly on her clit.

She gasps, gripping onto the sides of the table and clenching her eyes shut as she breathes harshly out through her nostrils. Stiles opens her eyes a few seconds later when she starts to get used to the hum of pleasure that’s sparking through her veins and sees that Derek is fucking looking at her with his dark, twinkling eyes and the remote in his hands.

Stiles bites her lips and sidles her way lower onto the chair, spreading her legs wider and hitches her skirt higher. She wants— _needs_ —to let Derek see everything to how her body reaches when he’s the cause of it.

Derek is breathing shallowly, she sees it in the way his eyebrows and lips are drawn taut before he springs the settings higher on the clit buzzer and turning the bullet vibrator on as well. Stiles clenches her jaw tight, biting down on her cheek to prevent her from moaning out loud at how good it feels.

How good _Derek_ is making her feel.

She’s so wet— _drenched_ because when she gyrates her hips a little, trying to gain a little more friction on her clit, she feels the squelching of her lips rubbing against the coarse feel of the panties. Stiles is so tempted to reach up to her nipples, twisting them with professional fingers and just displaying everything for him to just… _take_.

Derek must have seen how Stiles is clearly desperate for more because the buzzing of the vibrator suddenly shoots up again, a constant throbbing of pleasure mixed in with a body quivering wave of adrenaline inside and outside of her.

If she’s not so keen on getting off right now, she would at least be a little ashamed that the vibrations are getting a little too loud and the voices from the overhead speakers aren’t covering it up too well but—fuck that.

Stiles is so close, almost in reach of bursting in little sparks of gold and pleasure that when she looks at Derek again who still has one hand under the desk and his hands are moving in little jerky motions, just little twitches that look too familiar from all the solo masturbation porn she’s watch on guys that it’s clearly unmistakable in her eye.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles grunts softly and her nails are digging into the fleshy parts of her thighs, leaving a trail of red and heat in their wake.

Stiles only loses it, the walls of her cunt clenching tight with throbs of velvety bliss when she watches the way Derek’s chest start to heave heavily, eyes flicking down to look at her crotch and then back up into her eyes before he’s hanging his head down, eyes squeezing shut.

“Shitshit _shit_ ,” Stiles gasps, coming down, and she knows she’s breathing too roughly, too harsh to not notice but she’s glad that the two girls beside her are too engaged in the movie to even chance a quick look at her.

She just came because of Derek Hale.

No, scratch that, Derek Hale is the reason that she came.

Fuck, no, that doesn’t sound right either.

Derek Hale made her come.

Yeah. That’s the one.

-

Stiles waits for all of the rest of her peers to leave the classroom before she starts to pack up her things. She’s not risking it and she’s pretty sure that she left a huge puddle of her come on the chair that she’s just looking forward to wiping it off with twenty over people looking over her shoulder.

Derek slides behind her, a large hand on her hip as he murmurs into her ear. “You’re a naughty girl, aren’t you, Ms Stilinski?”

“Mr Hale—” Stiles wheezes and it’s not like she got startled or anything since she saw the way Derek sat at the desk, not even moving an inch but just continues to stare at her even when he’s thanking the class. “—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh you know what I’m talking about,” Derek tells her and his tone is the don’t bullshit with me girl as he tosses the remote on the desk, other hand still firmly gripping onto her hip like he’s terrified of letting her slip off his fingers. “Doing all these things that’s slowly driving me insane—God, Stiles. I feel like a teenager around you instead of the other way round.”

“I’ll let you know that I turn twenty soon,” Stiles huffs, pressing herself closer into Derek’s chest. “In about, you know, three years.”

“I’m losing my fucking mind,” Derek groans and he presses a light kiss onto her neck. “Can’t touch you before you turn eighteen, can’t do this when you’re my student—fuck, you’re my _student_ and all I want to do is drive my cock so far up in you that I’ll feel the heat of your cunt for days.”

“It’s mutual,” Stiles murmurs and moans softly when Derek slides a hand in between her thighs—that are still wet—she’s still fucking soaked, _god_. “I want you too.”

“I’ll give you my number,” Derek says and he almost sounds disappointed when he says it. “I won’t touch you until you’re eighteen and not my student but nothing in the law says that I can’t talk to you. Right?”

“Right,” Stiles replies and she turns around and Derek looks so good up close. He’s mouth-watering, actually. She leans in and steals a chaste peck off his lips anyway which Derek almost chases her mouth again but holds himself back. “Just wanna know how it feels—the stubble burn.”

Derek chokes and he pries himself off Stiles, pressing the same piece of paper into her hand, the same one she left on the desk. “Call me tonight.”

Stiles only dances when he leaves the classroom because that’s _totally_ a promise for phone sex.

_Right?_

Right.

-

Lydia spends the entirety of next week parading around in sweatpants and Stiles closes one eye because they’re pink in colour with rhinestones glued at the ass region.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this from the inspiration of my best friend sol because she's the muffinpie to my bosom and she deserves all the porn in the world *u*
> 
> Same as always, I combine all the kinks that the sterek fandom will never write and revolutionizes it into a whole big kinky fic.


End file.
